


Come Together In My Dreams

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Illya Has It Bad, M/M, Realization, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no sleep for Illya after that dream. Instead, he lies on the bed, disbelief and guilt wracking his burning body, his mind churning as to what had possessed him to have that despicable dream of his partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Together In My Dreams

Illya can feel a mouth on him.  
   
He feels it move across his body, moist and heated against his abdomen, on his chest, rising higher and higher still until he feels warm, shuddery breaths on his neck, a velvet tongue slipping out to taste his feverish skin, a damp path trailing upwards but deftly avoiding his lips before beginning its descent again.  
   
Illya lies still, letting the mouth roam across his body, to explore the surface and elicit a stirring deep in him. He lies still as molten arousal begins to engulf his body, rising from the depths of his groin and spreading to his limbs, the delicious ache robbing all strength from him. He lies motionless, eyes closed, and let the sensation find its way to his chest, to squeeze his lungs, to accelerate his breathing and emit a soft moan from the back of his throat.  
   
The mouth continues, relentless, tasting his taut nipples, rolling them gently to savour them before the attention moves lower again to his quivering abdomen and slowly further down until he feels hot breath on his groin, breath lingering for a moment before his hardened length is engulfed.  
   
Illya groans sharply and then, all of a sudden, his eyes flash open.  
   
He sees no one.  
   
There is no mouth on him, no one with him, nothing covering his throbbing length.  
   
Frantic, he squeezes his eyes shut rapidly, desperate for the dream to continue, to return, but it doesn’t.  
   
Suddenly, his eyes open again and a wave of panic flashes through him. No, it cannot be. 

Illya realises with panic, quite not wanting to believe the truth.  
   
Napoleon.  
   
The mouth on him. Stirring that deep want in his dream.  
   
It was Napoleon’s.  
   
***  
   
There was no sleep for Illya after that dream. Instead, he lies on the bed, disbelief and guilt wracking his burning body, his mind churning as to what had possessed him to have that despicable dream of his partner.  
   
What had made him dream of that American spy, for his mind to conjure up images of his filthy mouth on him, on his skin, on his…  
   
There was no sleep for Illya because the arousal didn't abate but awakened, the disbelief shifted to curiosity, guilt turned into pleasure as his hand turned into Napoleon’s mouth, his own fingers tracing its path on his body just like Napoleon’s lips had in his dream.  
   
And he came, shuddering, breathless sighs filling the darkened bedroom, sheets covered with seed, mind blurred from the pleasure of his violent high, Napoleon’s name on Illya’s lips.  
   
But it is one thing to dream about your partner and find feverish release with him in mind in the privacy of your bedroom.  
   
It is quite another to wake up the next day to realise what you had done.  
   
Because that is when the guilt and the disbelief return.  
   
That is when denial becomes Illya’s best ally.  
 

***

   
“Good morning,” Napoleon greets Illya as he enters the main room of their hotel suite that they share and Illya quickly take in the morning stubble, the tousled hair, the sleep-filled heavy blue eyes and the scent of Napoleon, whatever that is only Illya would know, that still clings to his skin.

“Good morning,” he replies quietly, eager to avert his eyes and relocate his attention elsewhere, to whatever even vaguely interesting he might find in the room. If Gaby was there, she could distract him, but unfortunately, this time around, she has a room to herself, much to their disgruntlement.  
   
“Sleep okay?”   

“Why?” 

Illya does not like the question from Napoleon. Did he hear the goings on in his room? Had he been ‘loud’?   

“You look tired, Peril, maybe—”  
   
“It’s not your job to worry how I look,” Illya snaps, a little irritated, his guard up at once and ready, his gaze remaining on the newspaper in his hands, in which he has no idea at all what he has been reading. “I could look like death, or I could look perfectly healthy, but it has nothing to do with you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is stunned but he says nothing at Illya’s outburst.  
   
He only looks at his Russian partner’s profile in silence, shakes his head a little. But the tensing of his shoulders tells Illya that his 'back the fuck off' message was received loud and clear.  
   
“Sorry,” Napoleon says a few seconds later and turns away towards the bathroom. No parting remark about only asking, no snappy retort, no unintentionally comical attempt of his usual humour to lift Illya’s spirits. No. None of the usual stuff. Nothing at all. Instead, Napoleon merely walks away leaving Illya feeling like a complete moron.  
   
But it is better this way, at least today. Yes, definitely better. And not only better, but it is for the best. The best for Illya’s sanity. The best for Napoleon not to be there in front of him so he can cling to his precious denial. It is best to make Napoleon leave him alone so his groin won’t stir into life again.

Illya groans.  
 

***

   
Illya tries to keep his distance from Napoleon that day, the last day of their mission, whenever possible, but despite it being deliberate, he hopes Napoleon does not notice. Because really he has no reason to upset Napoleon, not like the American has done anything to deserve being scorned, even if he always infuriate him. It is just Illya’s fucked up mind that concocted this fine mess.  
   
Maybe he is just sexually deprived, Illya thinks and laughs. He tries to reason with himself during their plane ride home. With a couple of days off after this, Illya will have a chance to think things through, tries to make more sense as to why it had happened. Maybe the dream he had was just waiting to happen, and it could’ve been about anyone.  
   
But fuck...  
   
Why did it have to be Napoleon? Why not Gaby? That would have been more appropriate. Wouldn’t it?  


Because he likes Gaby. And Gaby, she is an attractive woman, strong, independent. All the qualities Illya love in a woman. So why Napoleon? Fuck, he is not even attracted to men, never has. 

As he sits there a couple of hours later in Waverly’s room after their debrief, he looks over as Napoleon chats animatedly with Gaby, perhaps about the new shoes she had bought the other day, or perhaps about Napoleon’s new tie. They always talk about fashion which Illya does not necessarily fancy, and seeing Napoleon talk to Gaby, the way her face beams whenever he says something particularly nice in her ear, he’s sure Napoleon is paying her a compliment, doesn’t really surprise Illya. Because he knows Napoleon is a charmer, an irritating trait of his that distracts Illya to no end. And he has these pair of amazing blue eyes, eyes that Illya wants to strip away naked a thousand times, eyes that Illya feels are a gateway to his soul. 

But what does that really mean? So Napoleon has lovely eyes. But that’s it. That’s about it. And it only means that Illya does like Napoleon. And his eyes. In a friendly sort of way. And perhaps, he would even go as far as to say he is fond of the American man. And his lovely eyes.  
   
But that shouldn’t mean he suddenly wants his cock sucked by Napoleon.  
   
Groaning inwardly, Illya knows he has to get away from him. From being too near him. At least for the moment. But the thing is, when he gets home later to his empty apartment, he is going to think of Napoleon again. And when has Napoleon started dominating his brain activity? Since that ridiculous dream he had last night? Illya cannot help but curse himself.  
   
“Hey, Illya.”  
   
Illya looks up to see Gaby standing in front of him. His eyes wander past her, sees Napoleon now talking to their superior by the window of the elderly gentleman’s spacious office. When Gaby clears her throat, attracting Illya’s wavering attention, his eyes fall on her once again. 

“What is it Chop Shop Girl?” he croaks hastily.  
   
“Solo thinks something is bugging you.”

Had they been talking about him? This is not good, Illya thinks.  
   
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks Gaby as he starts to fret. She is going to see right through him. She always does.  
   
“Those were his words, Illya, not mine.”  
   
Illya snorts, starts to get up when Gaby stops him from doing so. She sits down next to him and smiles.

“Solo says you’ve been avoiding him. I say that’s quite impossible since we all work together but he says you definitely are so now I want to ask you, is this true?”  
   
Gaby follows Illya’s line of vision which is now on Napoleon. “So? Is it true? Are you avoiding Solo?”  
   
“Of course not,” Illya replies at once. “Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I say something nasty to him earlier today but that is normal. It’s Cowboy. I always do that to him.”

“But I’d noticed you’ve not said a word to him ever since we arrived in London. And also during our plane ride home.”

Gaby and her keen eyes make Illya realise his attempts at being inconspicuous had come to nothing.  
   
“It’s really nothing, Gaby. Just leave it alone, will you?”  
   
Illya’s eyes turn slowly back to Napoleon once again and suddenly his gaze remains transfixed, mesmerised. Unwittingly, he swallows and shifts in his seat, as something stirs in him at the sight and suddenly, _the dream_ , that dream he had comes crashing back to his mind. Illya can all but feel Napoleon’s lips, his mouth on him once again…

“Okay, yeah right, I’ll leave you alone, all right.”

Gaby hums as she shifts her eyes back and forth between Illya and Napoleon and then smirks. “Leave you to Solo, that sounds more correct, I think,” she mumbles before getting up. 

It takes a while before Illya realises what Gaby had said. 

“Gaby?”

“Sorry, I had interrupted your moment.”

Illya blinks a couple of times and then tries to hide his reddened face by rubbing it in his hands.  
   
“Whatever it is between you two, I don’t care. But you are coming over to Solo’s tonight, right?”  
   
Illya looks at Gaby blankly, as if not understanding what she had said.  
   
“For heaven’s sakes Illya,” she groans, “We agreed to dinner yesterday, remember?”  
   
Illya nods furiously, trying to hide the fact that he had forgotten completely about their prior arrangement. If he were to decline, it would be too obvious and Napoleon would surely confront him about it. “Yes, yes, I remember.”  
   
“Good. So see you around eight, okay?”  
   
Illya nods again and Gaby heads out of the room.  
   
“Hey, Gaby,” Illya speaks, as if wanting to say something, but with Gaby slipping out of his sight, he drops the matter altogether. Just as he is about to leave, Napoleon suddenly fills his line of vision with that smile on his face. 

“See you tonight, Peril.”

And then he winks.  
   
As he disappears from the room, Illya’s uneasy stance at Napoleon’s behaviour, teasing as it was, remains with him until he has to run to the gents, locking the door, resting his head against the stall and bringing a hand to himself. Illya can’t stop it. He can’t stop the ministration of his own hand, touching himself, the grip hard and painful, the guilt, the denial still guiding his touch, feeding it like an angry force. He closes his eyes and try not to think of anything, just to rid himself of the hollowing, maddening arousal.  
   
Because it doesn’t matter who had caused it, it could have been anyone, he tries to convince himself again. All he has to do is find release and he will feel better, as good as gold.  
   
But coming sloppily, shakily over his own hand brings no relief.  
   
Instead, it leaves Illya with a realisation that he had pleasured himself twice in one day with Napoleon in mind.  
   
And with a haunting notion that he could do it again.   And again.  
 

***

   
The afternoon passes in a stupor as Illya is not sure what to do with himself, how he had arrived in that impossible situation. He plays back the months since he had met Napoleon in his head, desperately searching for clues, for moments that may have led him to that moment.  
   
He thinks of their first encounter, in Berlin, a lifetime ago, even if it had only been mere months. 

They flash before his eyes, crystal clear, every detail in place. Then what happened after in Rome, their first mission together, Napoleon saving him from drowning, him saving Napoleon from Rudi’s evil clutch, and then them rescuing Gaby together. Then, of course, that pivotal moment in Napoleon’s room. That decision which had changed their lives. And Illya could see it vividly, that look on Napoleon’s face, the warmth in his eyes and his own acceptance that the American had somehow saved his life in more ways than he could imagine.  
   
Illya remembers their first drink together on that balcony, their first away mission together in Istanbul. He remembers all the scenes, play it out perfectly in his mind, but he still can’t pick an exact moment to pinpoint why he feels this way for Napoleon now.   Because, maybe, just maybe, Illya feels like he has felt it since the first time he had laid eyes on Napoleon.

 

***  
 

Gaby and a reluctant Illya, arrive eventually at Napoleon’s apartment around seven thirty that night, and after dinner and cleaning up, which Gaby and Napoleon had fought over on who’s to do the dishes, they sit around on the sofa, drinking wine, having some quite time together. 

“Oh, Solo, you’ve stuffed us up real good,” Gaby mumbles with a sated smile, rubbing her tummy. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure,” Napoleon smiles, his eyes kind and gentle and then it falls on Illya and Illya smiles back, with a little stutter. “It was delicious, Cowboy.”

“You know, I’m glad Waverly’s given us a few days off,” Gaby then says after a moment of awkward silence. “What are you going to do, Solo?”

Napoleon only shrugs. “I’ve no idea yet, Gaby. I’ll think of something soon.”

Then, both sets of eyes are on Illya and Napoleon grins. “Peril? What would you be up to?”

“I’m not sure either,” Illya mutters, turns to Gaby as if asking her to rescue him from Napoleon’s gaze. Gaby immediately takes pity on him, understands her friend’s predicament although she is still not quite certain what it is that is going on between both her partners.

“Well, I’ll tell you boys what I’m going to do. I’m going shopping.”

Napoleon teases Gaby and then they start to banter and Illya cannot be more relieved. Excusing himself, he disappears into Napoleon’s kitchen under the pretence that he wants to get some snack before they start to watch a movie Gaby had suggested they watch together. On the way, Illya glances at Napoleon carefully from the corner of his eye and realises he has no idea of what he is supposed to do about this sudden want that he has or where the fuck this is supposed to lead. 

The movie, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ starring the current pop craze The Beatles, soon starts, and looking at the girls in the movie going hysterical over a pop group consisting of four men with mop top haircuts makes Illya wonder if he is better at being a pop star than a spy. But with his too tall height, Illya quickly thinks otherwise. But Napoleon, well, now, he has all the characteristics of being a movie star. What with that good looks, Illya could just imagine all the girls fancying him. Even the men…even him…

Oh shit, Illya’s mind is wandering again and it is not good. Not good at all. He sighs, a little too loud, and that draw a curious but knowing look from Gaby but Illya’s dismissive head shake turns her gaze back on the screen.

Drawing his mind on Napoleon, whose eyes are somehow glued to the television screen, Illya cannot help but echo his thoughts from earlier. It might be one thing to dream about Napoleon and jack off with him in mind in the toilets. But it’s quite another to start thinking he might actually fancy him.  
   
Illya steals another look at his partner again. A funny scene on the screen, which Illya does not know what since his brain is not fixed on The Beatles currently, brings a wide grin on Napoleon’s lips. And Illya smiles at that, his gaze remaining fixed on Napoleon’s features until he can sense Illya’s eyes on him and he turns to look at the Russian.  
   
And as Illya’s heart thumps an extra beat at the sight of his smile, it’s no longer denial that burns his insides.  
   
It’s a revelation.

It hits him hard but it doesn’t make Illya panic any less. The threatening wave of dread and nausea begins to pound in his head, so he slips back to the kitchen in search of some peace and quiet.  
   
“Hey.”  
   
Illya looks up startled as Napoleon follows him in and leans against the counter. “Good movie don’t you think?”  
   
“I guess,” Illya replies. “Never thought you like music so much. Gaby yes, but you?”  
   
“I am not really but their music is okay,” he shrugs, “starting to grow on me but Gaby’s engrossed. Has not noticed we’ve left her alone.”  
   
Illya hums quietly, finds staring at the kitchen counter more conducive than looking at Napoleon’s face.  
   
“Peril,” Napoleon says, moves a step closer and Illya leans back instinctively. “Illya, I know it is not my business, and maybe it is nothing but is something wrong? I mean are you all right?”  
   
Illya raises tired eyes at him. “I’m fine.”  
   
“Are you sure?” he asks again.  
   
“Yes, Cowboy. I am.”  
   
“Peril, I am being serious,” Napoleon says as he brings a hand to Illya’s shoulder but Illya flinches away from his touch.   “Don’t.”  
   
Napoleon looks at his partner with puzzlement and hurt mixed together perfectly in his blue eyes. “Are you angry with me or something? Tell me what did I do?”  
   
“No,” Illya mutters, shakes his head while rubbing his eyes. “I am not angry, Cowboy. Is nothing.”  
   
“Are you not sleeping well? Maybe if we…”  
   
“Cowboy, I had this dream…”  
   
The words leave Illya’s lips before he can stop them and he curses the alcohol, even if it had only been a couple of glasses of wine, for meddling with his self-control. But he also can't discern the look on Napoleon’s face, his expression at that moment is one Illya has never seen before.  

“What happened in the dream?” he asks quietly.  
   
Illya shakes his head, his line of defence erected hastily again. “Forget what I said. Is nothing.”  
   
“Oh come on, Peril. What is it?” Napoleon retorts. “Tell me.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Don’t be a dick, Illya.”  
   
Illya laughs at that, lets out a good laugh, the word Napoleon had used on him catching him unaware. “A what?”  
   
“A dick. It means you’re being an idiot.”  
   
“I know what it means, Cowboy,” Illya chuckles but sober up quickly when Napoleon somehow has moved in closer towards him.  
   
“So, Peril, the dream…I was in it…”  
   
It is not a question but a statement and Illya swallows empty, his breathing accelerating.  
   
“I must have been in it, with the way you have been acting today.”  
   
But Illya’s guard gets raised quickly again, his last attempts at controlling this, controlling himself.

“I’ve acted like nothing, you are reading me wrong,” he snaps back and then mutters, “And so what if I had a dream about you, Cowboy? I’m sure you’ve had many dreams about me.”  
   
The words leave Illya’s mouth in haste, probably in self-defense, but now they remain suspended in the sudden silence between both men. And Illya needs to take the words back, quickly, to fill the silence somehow, but he can offer nothing because Napoleon’s eyes on him are excruciating and then Napoleon sighs as he says quietly, “In fact I have, Peril. You’re right.”  
   
Illya’s heart pounds madly in his chest, exhales sharply, letting out the breath he has been holding as he feels like crumbling in front of Napoleon, his defences crashing down spectacularly. Not knowing what else to do, Illya closes his eyes to shield himself from the American, from his gaze, from his confession.  
   
“Tell me about the dream,” Napoleon whispers and the imagery plays instantly against Illya’s eyelids, the arousal seeping back into his body.  
   
“I was lying in bed…”   The words leave Illya’s lips almost involuntarily, like Napoleon’s sheer presence draws the words from him, feels his partner moving in closer.  
   
“Yes…and then?”  

“And I could feel you… your mouth on me…”  
   
A soft gasp reaches Illya’s ears, certainly Napoleon’s, and his groin flares up painfully.  
   
“Where, Illya?” Napoleon breathes, right next to him, so close he can feel the want radiate off him.  
   
“On my neck, on my chest… and down—”  
   
The words are halted as Illya feel Napoleon’s tongue on his lips, moist and heated, tasting him. Illya draws a shuddery breath, his eyes still closed as Napoleon leans in, pressing his mouth on Illya’s slowly.   And the sweet ache in his chest returns, the arousal burns deep within him again but as he steps back and opens his eyes, Illya knows _this, now_ , it is not a dream.  
   
He sees his everything.

 

***

 

“Boys! I think I’m in love with The Beatles…”

The words die on Gaby’s mouth as she enters the kitchen, blushes at the sight in front of her and immediately leaves.

She knows what’s going on with the boys now. And she won’t tease Illya about it, not yet. Perhaps tomorrow. And Napoleon owes Gaby a pair of new shoes.

Gaby smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a silly fic and Illya might seem a little ooc?  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. :D


End file.
